


Change (Parasite)

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Bisexuality, Biting, Blasphemy, Body Worship, Bruises, Character Study, F/M, Masochism, Memories, Mild Blood, Past Relationship(s), Reflection, Rough Sex, Rumination, Sadism, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violent Thoughts, learning to love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25005034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: He thinks of you in the spring with moonlight on your lips and starlight in your hair. He's learned to appreciate the change in temperature, the first thaw, and the days to follow.
Relationships: Hanamiya Makoto/Imayoshi Shouichi, Hanamiya Makoto/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Change (Parasite)

He watches you with shadowed eyes and an air of disinterest despite the myriad of thoughts swimming through his mind like gilded fishes—valuable, precious, and rare. He watches you move from one room to the next, wearing the bruises that mottle your collarbones like a confession, visible only when you're certain no one else is around. He recounts the night responsible for the discoloration with fondness, a gesture of partiality that spreads to a crooked smile on his lips.

It's not often that he allows himself to ruminate like this, and you know precious little about when he does because he's never been one to advertise his thoughts—much less his emotions. Still, when you lift your head to meet his calculative stare, he thinks you catch the comatose love in his eyes. The thought unsettles him but not as much as it would have months ago, and this makes him wonder if living in the light of your halo has done him more harm than good.

He tries to remind himself that it doesn't make him any less of who he used to be. That his feelings for you don't make him weak or fragile like those with the delicate backbones and withered hearts that he loathes. Nevertheless, his state of mind, obstinate and tenacious, threatens to shake apart under the weight of his former convictions.

He recalls a time when the only thing between you was one-sided ecstasy and the dreams that left him wanting more of you. He couldn't make sense of it at first, couldn't even begin to scratch the surface of why he longed to know the taste of your skin and feel the catch of your breathing beneath his fingertips. He hadn't been as wrapped up in sex as his friends, save for Furuhashi, and his relationship with Imayoshi, if one could call it such, was satisfying enough. _Too_ satisfying, at times.

Hanamiya absentmindedly drags his fingers over a deep scar on his forearm. He almost laughs when he thinks back on one particular memory. He recalls his mother's expression after she had walked into his bedroom, long black hair spilling over the clothes balanced in her arms. Surprise and disapproval aren't strong enough examples to describe the look she wore on her face before she set down a neatly folded pile of laundry on his desk. She said nothing as she left the room, closing the door behind her a bit too sharply to reflect normalcy.

He had been on his knees in front of Imayoshi, dark lacerations spilling over the jut of his shoulders and down his pale back as he kneeled dizzy in the center of the room. Imayoshi was dressed in vestments—where he got them, Hanamiya still doesn't know—a bible in one hand and a rosary in his other. He was calm, collected, and Hanamiya was sure that he was the only one who could have discerned the amusement scraping against the back of his throat when he read from the Holy Book, steady in his hands. He never asked Imayoshi where his irreverent fascination for the Christine doctrine and Roman Catholicism came from, nor did he really care. He was drawn to sin and corruption like a moth to a radiant flame and if he was a part of a paraphyletic group of insects, Imayoshi was unlike any light he'd ever laid his eyes on.

Which is truly ironic because Hanamiya can't think of a person less ethereal than his former...fling? Affair? Lover? He scoffs and pushes the thought from his mind. What they _were_ doesn't matter anymore.

He rides his train of thought away from ungodly confessions and the entropy of his history with Imayoshi; the pieces of his former self that slowly decayed into chaotic repetition falling away from his immediate memory. He slipped the noose and escaped the hangman's hands but not before the devil himself could carve his name into his arm. Hindsight, as always, is 20/20 but Hanamiya has no regrets. It was an experimental time of his life, each minute that ticked by closer to the side of masochism than the slow-burning sadism that's recently settled into permanency.

The clink of cutlery against stainless steel draws Hanamiya's attention toward the kitchen where you've just finished washing the dishes. He steals a glimpse at your face and for some reason, your expression reminds him of when you shared cherry ice in the spring.

The mutterings in his head take the shape of a mnemonic form and he can easily picture your cold red lips sucking his fingers into your mouth. It wasn't the first time you'd shared something intimate but something about that moment seemed so profound that it wedged itself between the dark recesses of his mind like the candy forever stuck in the baby teeth he keeps in his dresser drawer.

He thinks of you in the spring with moonlight on your lips and starlight in your hair. He's learned to appreciate the change in temperature, the first thaw, and the days to follow. He prefers the cold but frigid temperatures don't readily allow glimpses of the skin he's come to know better than his own. He listens to the music that plays in his head, a song that he grudgingly danced to with you held tight in his arms, breath soft against his neck. The record skips and the honey drips and cherries in the spring have started to look like the bruises on your hips.

His thoughts melt into summer and the way you would lie stagnant in his bed, speaking until the sun cried morning and the heat on your skin turned to sweat. He thinks about ice cream and movie screens and coffee shop routines, wondering when his life turned into something so uncharacteristically normal.

He watches you as you move through the kitchen like the ghosts he used to trip over after long nights and tired mornings. He can't remember exactly when he saw your face and his brain stopped seeing you as a stranger; but now he thinks you look like gold leaf and unbroken sand, sparkling in the summer's afterglow with freckles on your shoulders and warmth on your cheeks.

His thoughts travel deeper, through the twisting branches of the fiery autumn trees you used to walk beneath in the fall. He can feel your hand in his own, fingertips secure against the awful thoughts that kept him awake at night. The apprehension, the denial, the self-loathing, and the narcissistic neurosis that created a wall between himself and everything natural. He was always trying to outrun the ending when he didn't even have the plot. He'd heard of cold feet before but this went beyond that—he was turning into stone, trying to chisel his way out of his own body and into something entirely untouchable.

You held onto him like the turbulent waves of his indecision weren't strong enough to pull you into the undertow, when Hanamiya could see in your eyes that you were close to drowning. He had kissed you then, as the cool breeze rushed through his bones, and he willed himself not to break under the gravity of his decision. Your lips tasted like apple cider and your breath smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. He said nothing as he walked you home, your hand warm against his palm as the moon shone brightly in the sky, reflecting yellow off of your eyes. He can still hear wolves howling in the distance when he thinks about it, and he wonders if it was their love for the moon that moved through him that night.

It was cold when he finally admitted it: the truth he never wanted to swallow. Your eyelashes caught the snow as he spoke five words that felt as if they were being pulled from his mouth like rotten teeth, each syllable painful and unwanted. _I think I love you._

He cringes even now, though it's become more tolerant with time and he has to believe that it's only going to get easier. But to say that means to admit that he plans to keep you in his life—which wasn't something he was capable of prior to speaking those words. However, all it took was picturing you elsewhere, missing from his long days and even longer nights, to realize that he needed you; though he was loath to admit it.

His mind begins to slow with thoughts of winter's snow, bloody teeth behind wine-red lips in the TV's soft glow, and the withered edge of an old photo. He starts when you gently rest your hand on the delicate curve of his shoulder, disguised by only a thin layer of black cotton. It's stark in contrast against his pale, almost sick in pallor, complexion, though it complements his varicolored gaze.

You ask him if he's okay while leaning into his solid warmth before he wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you into his lap. He waits for you to center your balance into something slightly less precarious before responding with a kiss. It's not that he doesn't have anything to say, in actuality, a thousand words are pressing against the backs of his teeth—he just doesn't want to speak them.

He kisses you hard, like a memory of the first time Imayoshi's fist connected with his jaw. He slips his tongue past the seam of your lips and lets you fill his mouth in turn, sweet and warm, not entirely unlike the blood that spilled between the gaps in his teeth when his life meant something else. When he prayed to a wax bride named death and wore a silver cross heavy with hallowed fragrance in mockery of the spiritual and divine.

Hanamiya has shifted his focus. He has turned you into something to be revered, a sanctimonious rite in the name of a new religion he built on the bones of his dissolute beliefs. He's pressed you between the pages of the sacred writ to dry like the petals on a dying flower, as disassembled as the words he's tried to put together to tell you all of this.

But it's easier to stand in the shadows and let the light pass through him, so he buries a hand in the fall of your hair and kisses you like he's being fucked for the first time. A dangerous thought pushes to the forefront of his mind but he keeps it there, holds it in place and lets it fester like an open sore. He feeds on the disease like a parasite and lets the darker parts of his mind wither and rot like a corpse laid in the sun to putrefy. Such are the deep and the penetrating, such are the far-reaching effects of sanctity—there is a fine line between virtue and vice, and to Hanamiya, you are both.

He plans to carry you into the bedroom but only manages as far as the couch before his desire turns over to desperation. He doesn't have enough hands to touch you everywhere he wants to at once, wanting to break you as much as he wants to love you. It's an old habit, one that makes him want to do bad things, to make you his doll for a day. He's better, he knows this, but there's still a dog in his heart, and the virus in his brain tells him to tear you apart.

But you're the first person, except for a few less intimate partners, that he doesn't want to destroy. So he settles for the lesser of two evils. He scratches at the surface of your skin instead of digging his nails in deep. He bites down on your flesh hard enough to leave indentations in the shape of his teeth but not hard enough to break through the topmost layer. He pins your arms above your head, firm but yielding, unlike the voice in the back of his mind that sounds like steel dragging against metal, speaking to him of broken bones and permanent injury.

And even through all of this, the pleasure and the pain and the promise of bruises, he is still capable of worshiping what he has marked his own. He fucks into you hard, his hips snapping forward with enough force to shake your frame while he leaves a trail of sweet kisses along the smooth column of your throat. His eyes are bister and burning, his skin redolent and slick with a fine sheen of sweat. His teeth look dangerously sharp when he sweeps his tongue out across his lips, catching the low whisper of your breath on its damp tip. Yet, despite the threat that lies in wait just beneath the surface of his skin, the constant hum of static that promises electricity if you push your luck, he looks at you as if you're the only thing that matters—in this, in _everything_.

He fucks the light out of your eyes and pushes the bittersweet indulgence of passion down to the marrow of your bones. He tears down your walls and leaves you in pieces, his rhythm driving at hatred and animosity against the words of adoration whispered against the shell of your ear. He draws you into the dark, drowns you in the crepuscular shadows of his desire, and for the first time, in all the months you've been together, Hanamiya can see his reflection in your eyes.

He doesn't understand the significance, can't see the nuance, but he can _feel_ the difference. What he once worshiped has become something else entirely. There is no longer a separation between the blood of his hostility and the veins of his good will. For years he lived as an amalgamation of disease and disorder, chaos without conscience—he was living an unintentional lie without the security of denial to fall back on.

When he feels the fever of his body break and his limbs grow taut, he knows that the answer has been right in front of him. He capitulates to the pressure in the low of his abdomen and the shiver that wraps around his aching hardness. He spills himself to completion inside of you, the ribbons of his viscous emission resembling much more than self-satisfaction. Your muscles clench around his cock, almost as if holding him in place, begging him to stay. And it's this—you have been the one to piece him together, the one who took all of his jagged edges and filed them to smoothness—until every part of him was no longer divided.

As his breathing slowly returns to normal, he says a silent prayer that suffocates the dissonance inside his mind. To most, it would be nothing more than a reminder, a mental note: it's a personal request for strength—the strength to accept what he has become.

When people strive for change it's usually to better themselves, but for Hanamiya, the antithesis has always been less offensive. He's always had a penchant for the dark, pushed himself down so far into the shade that he didn't think he could come back if he tried. He's still not ready to take the hand of morality and the light still burns his eyes, he doesn't suspect that will ever change, but something _has_ changed. It's changed with the seasons. Something that makes the subversion in his head a little less bleak and the discord of destruction a little less loud.

He looks at you, his hand shifting over your breast and up to your throat. There's a wicked smile overtaking the shape of his lips that disagrees with the sparkle of satisfaction in your heavy eyes. He presses his fingers in against the thrum of your pulse and tips his head forward to kiss the veneration off your lips.

At least one thing remains unchanged in all of this—which is comforting—he's damned with or without you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
